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THE second that Michael opened his eyes, his hand went to his chest. A dark red stain was hardly noticeable on the black fabric of dress shirt, which was torn in odd places. He wasn't laying in a pool of his blood anymore, but he still felt a crimson liquid sticking his hands to the floor. His eyes focused on the scene around him. Red coated the walls. The fire across the room looked like it was ready to rumble out of the hearth. There was no one in sight.
Michael lifted his hand, realizing more blood had poured over to his side. It wasn't his own. Slowly turning his head to the right, Michael felt his stomach cave in at the sight of Coraline laying lifeless beside him, covered in her own blood. He kneeled over her, unsure what to do – unsure what he could do. Why hadn't she woken up? Their lifelines were bound.
She should've woken up. But she wasn't moving. She was still dead. The several bullet wounds made sure of that. She was gone.
Michael placed his hands on her chest, trying to pump life into her, even though he knew it wouldn't do anything. "Come on," he muttered under his breath, pushing hard. The only thing it did was stain his palms a darker red. "Fuck!" He gave up, grabbing her cold, wet fingertips and holding them close. He could no longer see their electric connection; the threads were dead. A mixture of anger and sadness formed in the hollows of his half-beating heart. Michael searched for answers in his head, but only came up with one.
